


Sherlock's Trousers

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson never wins, Desperation, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sherlock is above other people, Watersports, oh my god I can't believe I wrote this, sherlock has the best ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a case, John and Sherlock are trapped in a closet. John has to piss and can't hold it any longer. Sherlock offers up his trousers for John's use... while he's still in them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=118780447) on the BBC kink meme.

John isn't like Sherlock. He doesn't treat his body like mere transport, doesn't do the bare minimum required to get by (and sometimes, in Sherlock’s case, not even that). He eats regularly, tries to get as much sleep as possible even though he doesn't always get a full eight hours, and makes sure he takes care of himself. But when you live with Sherlock Holmes, not only do you see the battlefield, you also get swept away by it. The little things become inconsequential, so that hours can go by and suddenly it's after midnight and he hasn't eaten since he was dragged out of bed at 7am. 

And then there's the moments like this, when he's trapped in a closet with Sherlock with a gang of international thieves right outside and he has to piss. Badly.

"Do you think they'll go away soon?" he hisses, keeping his voice deliberately soft. Sherlock insisted on investigating the warehouse and didn’t bother to tell Lestrade where they were going beforehand. Normally this would've been finem but the gang returned without warning, and the two of them barely had enough time to hide. There’s no question of escape, not unless they want to face four burly, armed men who don't like the consulting detective or his assistant. John shifts his weight uneasily and wishes that he'd grabbed his gun before leaving the flat.

"Not likely," Sherlock mutters. His head is tilted, expression thoughtful, only just barely visible in the flickering, sputtering light of his cell phone. It goes out every couple of minutes and John's pretty sure the battery is dying. Fortunately Sherlock has already texted Lestrade, but they're on the other side of the city so it could be an hour or more before the DI makes it here. 

An hour. The mere thought of it makes him squirm. He clenches his thighs together, body half-turned away from Sherlock, and takes a deep breath. God. He was able to ignore at first. It was easy when he was focused on trying to keep up with Sherlock. But now that they're just standing here, nerves fraught with tension, he can't think of anything else. His bladder is full to the point of what feels like bursting. His stomach aches with sharp, continual little throbs. Every movement is agony and yet somehow standing still hurts even more. He stares unseeingly at the far wall and tries not to imagine wetting himself in a closet with his best friend standing not a foot away. It's too humiliating to contemplate.

Sherlock taps something on his mobile; the click of the keys sounds loud in the otherwise silent room. John can just barely hear the men outside, their voices distant as they move about the warehouse, but close enough to be a danger. He clenches his left hand into a tight fist as a shiver runs up his spine. His forehead breaks out into sweat. If he were a child, he'd be gripping his cock, using the pressure to keep him from doing anything overly embarrassing. But that kind of action will be a dead give away to Sherlock. He closes his eyes and tries to think of something else, anything else, but the pressure is just getting worse and it's impossible to ignore. He squirms, knowing that there is absolutely no bloody way he'll make it another five minutes, much less an hour.

"You could piss in my trousers, if you wanted."

It takes John a moment to realize that Sherlock has spoken, and then to register the words. He twists without thinking and then nearly doubles over as the pain intensifies. Oh god, moving is a bit not good at the moment. He braces himself against the wall and says, "What?"

"I know you have to piss," Sherlock says, never looking up from his phone. "It's obvious. You've been squirming since we first hid in the closet. You kept checking the time on your mobile and then pressing your thighs together. It's not your leg that’s paining you; you always stand with your feet apart when it's bothering you." He glances up and his face is calm. "Your stomach is distended. I can tell even though you're wearing that jumper. You haven't eaten and you're not ill, so conclusion, your bladder is full. But you're concerned with the ramifications of pissing yourself, particularly in front of me, Lestrade and the others." His eyes narrow slightly. "You won't be able to hold out, though. I estimate you have another two minutes at the most before your body gives way."

"Brilliant," John says through gritted teeth. "I'm still not following the bit about your trousers."

Sherlock shrugs. "My clothing is more absorbent than yours, thicker," he says with the off-hand attitude of a clothing snob. "It will be less noticeable, and I certainly don't care even if someone does."

That's true. Sherlock considers himself so far above the world he'd probably mock anyone who dared to comment on whether or not he's pissed his pants. John is horrified to realize he's actually thinking about this. "Sherlock! I am not bloody well pissing in your trousers. Or anywhere else on you."

"Why not? No one will know the difference. And you must be uncomfortable. Your inability to remain still is annoying at best and going to get us caught at worst."

"Pardon _me_ ," John mutters, clasping a hand on the inside of his thigh. He swallows hard. It's getting worse, he knows. It's only a matter of seconds before he can’t hold back; the pressure is building. A low sound gets trapped in his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut. The sound of a zip makes him open them again and he starts when he realizes that Sherlock is standing inches away. There's a glittery look in Sherlock's eyes as he reaches out and unfastens the button on John's trousers, then slowly draws the zip down. John watches him in silence, spellbound, unable to protest as Sherlock slides a hand into the waistband of his pants and pulls them down too, revealing his cock. The first slide of those long, cool fingers is like torture and he can't contain a hollow gasp.

"Relax, John," Sherlock says in a low voice, stepping closer. Their bodies are pressed together now from chest to stomach. He slides the tip of John's cock into his trousers, nestling it comfortably in the space where the zip gapes open. "Let go."

That's easier said than done. He's been holding on for so long, forbidding himself from even thinking about releasing the pressure that he can't. He looks away from Sherlock's face and takes a couple more deep breaths, hoping to calm his racing heartbeat. It doesn't work. He's too conscious that it's Sherlock right next to him, that Sherlock is holding onto his cock, waiting for him to do something personal, something humiliating. It's entirely too intimate and yet at the same time he feels a swelling of arousal, his cock hardening in the grasp of those dextrous fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he rasps, ready to pull away entirely. He'll explode if he has to but there's no way he's going through with this.

Sherlock's free hand comes up and grips his unwounded shoulder, uncomfortably tight, preventing John from moving away. He's staring down, though he can't possibly see because their bodies are pressed so tightly together. John doesn't dare look into his face, doesn't want to know what Sherlock is thinking, so he's entirely unprepared for the way Sherlock's hand tightens and _strokes_.

"Fucking - " John cuts himself off, remembering the gang at the last moment. His legs go weak and it's a damn good thing he's still propped against the wall. "Sherlock, what the..."

The rest of his sentence dies a swift death when Sherlock keeps pulling, his fingers dancing across John's cock like he's done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. It feels sinfully good; the calluses on the tips of Sherlock's fingers are catching on the delicate skin, provoking a response that makes John fully hard in what feels like seconds. He chokes on his next breath, head spinning, and shudders. Good _god_ Sherlock is talented at this, knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure to use and when to release. His nails scrape gently against the underside, tug playfully on the foreskin, twist against the glans. Every movement is specifically designed to get John that much closer. It's working.

He bites off a spectacular curse and buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing raggedly. It shifts him a half-step closer and he feels pressure against his thigh – Sherlock is aroused, he realizes belatedly. And as though realizing John has caught on, Sherlock's breath catches and he begins stroking faster, using the warm palm of his hand to cup John's cock while his fingers pull and curl and oh holy hell, John can't hold back.

His cry is muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's coat as he bites down. His legs are shaking from the force of his orgasm and, his discomfort forgotten, he groans weakly as he feels the pressure from his bladder finally take precedence. What begins as a small trickle, barely spotting Sherlock's pants, quickly turns into a stream of hot piss that soaks the front of Sherlock's trousers and spreads down his legs. Sherlock makes an odd sound in the back of his throat and presses himself more firmly against John's thigh, though his hand never wavers, just keeps holding John's cock firmly in place.

Eventually, the stream slows and tapers off, leaving just the sound of their heavy breathing. John doesn’t know what to say or do so he just stays where he is, head cushioned against Sherlock’s shoulder, held in place by Sherlock’s arm, which at some point slipped around his waist. Sherlock’s cock is hard against his thigh and he doesn’t know if he should ignore it or return the favour.

Then there's the sound of voices outside: loud, familiar voices, and fighting.

John tenses.

"Hmm, half an hour. Lestrade was faster than I thought," Sherlock observes, like he's not spectacularly hard after having just brought his flatmate off and then allowed said flatmate to piss on him.

"God." John jerks backwards, scrambling to put his cock away and make himself look halfway respectable. Sherlock is slower to follow, zipping his trousers and drawing his coat around his body. The front of his trousers are soaked with piss and it can't be comfortable, but he steps forward and puts a hand on the doorknob, pushing the door open with a flourish. Several officers swing around towards them.

"Stand down," Lestrade says wearily before anyone can speak. "Sherlock, still in one piece?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, glancing swiftly at the other end of the room. He takes in the four men who are being handcuffed and gives a curt nod. 

"Mind telling me what's going on?" Lestrade says.

"It was a thieving ring. International, though only recently. That was their big mistake. They would have been able to continue their work without notice if they hadn't tried to move up in the game." Sherlock looks smug as he settles his fingers together. "They got greedy and it got them caught."

"No thanks to you," Anderson mutters. He walks over next to Lestrade and scowls, crossing his arms. "Hiding in the closet, were you? So glad to know the great Sherlock Holmes was too scared to face a couple of thieves."

John glares at him. "Those thieves had guns," he points out tersely. Sherlock gets himself into enough danger without anyone encouraging him. It's a wonder the man actually hid instead of trying to face down the gang himself. 

Anderson just scoffs and starts to move past Sherlock. His nose twitches and he stops suddenly, turning to look at Sherlock. John sees it happening in slow motion and he can't stop it; even as he realizes that the front of Sherlock's coat has gaped open, revealing Sherlock's darkened trousers, Anderson's eyes go wide with understanding and he snorts.

"Were you so frightened that you actually pissed yourself?" he says, sounding amazed. He takes a half-step closer and then stops and guffaws. "My god, the great consulting detective wetting himself like a child, and all because - "

"Anderson!" Lestrade's voice has a dangerous bite to it. Anderson stops speaking instantly. "That's enough. Get to work."

Anderson scowls but slinks away. Sherlock has been ignoring him, anyway; he's staring at the men on the other side of the room, eyes narrowed in concentration. John can't tell whether the taunting genuinely doesn't bother him or whether Sherlock hasn't noticed. But then Sherlock looks up and their eyes meet, and a silent understanding flashes between the two of them. It's broken only when Lestrade shifts uncomfortably and gives an awkward little cough. John turns towards him.

"Listen, we're just going to go," he says in an undertone. "We'll come give our statements tomorrow, yeah?"

Lestrade nods. "Sounds good," he says, giving John a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Sherlock." He nods and heads over to where Anderson is, and John has the feeling that Anderson is in for a rough night. The thought fills him with perverse satisfaction and he smirks as he and Sherlock walk out of the warehouse together.

Sherlock hails a cab and they get in. The cabbie wrinkles his nose at the smell of urine and John rolls down the window. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice for real this time. His head is tilted back and his hands are resting in his lap. He's squirming a little, John notices suddenly. Suspicions floods through him and he inches closer, sliding his hand between Sherlock's thighs, feeling along the cold, clammy fabric. Sure enough, Sherlock is still hard and the brush of John's fingers makes a whine rise in his throat as his hips jerk forward, seeking more friction. Keeping one eye on the cabbie, John prods him more firmly, relishing the way Sherlock keens softly.

"You know," he says, "I need to repay you for... for that. Thank you, I mean." It's the truth. He's grateful to Sherlock on so many levels; no one else would have done that for him.

"Don't thank me," Sherlock says, his voice deep and smoky. It makes John's heart skip a beat and his cock twitch with interest. "I'm sure I can figure out some way for you to show your appreciation." He squeezes his thighs shut, trapping John's hand with a distinctive squelching sound. It shouldn't be erotic. It is. John breathes out shakily and nods, hoping that the cabbie hurries.


End file.
